Theory of Three
by Andrea Sinisterra
Summary: OneShot AU, 1xR. Written for the Church of Lemons 2007 challenge. There are two kinds of women. It’s the way it’s always been. Two strangers. One cup of coffee, fate and irony.


**Theory of Three**  
By Andrea  
Rated M / R  
_Standard Disclaimers Apply_

Not beta read.

* * *

**_There are two kinds of women. It's the way it's always been._**

* * *

They meet one cold December afternoon. She's in a rush because she's late. It's her first day on the job; she had applied, gone to the interview with almost no expectations of getting it. But she had.

* * *

**_The first kind, she's mellow and sweet._**

* * *

She had spent the entire week since she got the happy news trying on ensemble after ensemble, rifling through stores and boutiques, draining her credit card, probably indebting herself to death. _This better work out_, she thought to herself that same morning as she tried her new fiery-red lipstick on.

* * *

**_She's the kind of woman not meant for wet dreams;_**

* * *

They collide. His just-brewed espresso spills. It stains her flimsy cream top. She's shocked. He is annoyed, his razor-sharp gaze accusatory. Her shirt is ruined; _what kind of a first impression will I make?!_, she shrieks, as if he understands what she is referring to. He doesn't even care, not really. Actually, it's her fault for rushing and not looking where she's going.

* * *

**_she's the kind of woman you wish to embrace and protect,_**

* * *

They face off, and through her anger and surprise, she notices the white dust covering the front of his coat. _Powdered sugar_, she realizes dimly, trying to hold back the bubble of laugher rising in her throat. His eyes focus on her strawberry jam-filled doughnut, accusatory, a twist of irony lining his lips. 

_Tit for tat_, she says with mirth, enjoying the way his eyes narrow. He pats at his coat, but the sugary concoction only adheres itself further into the cloth, and this time she can't hold back.

She laughs.

* * *

**_she's the kind who brightens your day with a smile, contagious, gorgeous, even though…_**

* * *

They part as he grumbles; she picks up a long stream of obscenities, but they only make her laugh harder. 

She can see he's smiling, too.

* * *

**_…she can't cook, her hair has split ends, and she also cries and gets angry… You know she's real._**

* * *

Three weeks pass before they collide once again. This time _it's your fault_, she accuses triumphantly. _How can you read and walk at the same time?_, she asks. 

He manages. His smile is arrogant and there's a subtle hint of amusement curving his brows.

Her sarcasm is biting. _Obviously_, she drawls. The amusement fades and his brows furrow.

* * *

**_She's the woman you'd want to be the mother of your children._**

* * *

Nine days later, they come across each other, and they laugh at the recurrence. For the first time, there's space between them, no drinks have been spilled, no curses have been muttered. They stare at each other—_amusing, exciting, intriguing_. He asks her out to dinner and she accepts. _Why not?_

Then she remembers she doesn't even know his name.

He concludes _it doesn't really matter_.

* * *

**_She's the one you see yourself spending the rest of your life with, the one you'd still want to embrace and protect…_**

* * *

After only three days, he realizes he's scared. After only two, she knows she's in deep shit. Perhaps it was a disaster waiting to happen, or maybe it was a blessing triggered by some miscalculated steps… The one thing she does know is that she likes it.

* * *

**_… even after the decades have come and gone._**

* * *

He sometimes thinks they rushed into things too quickly. _Too much, too soon_. But then, the wind whips her hair, making it dance around her face. She calls his name in between smiles. 

He knows he's lost.

* * *

**_You might even think she's perfect…_**

**_…or dangerous._**

* * *

The first time they really collide, a cloud of stardust bursts behind her closed eyelids. She can't decide if it's pain or pleasure, can't figure if she's too cold or too hot, or if she's up or down. What she does know is that it certainly feels delicious how his slick skin glides smoothly against her own. He is so _hard_. 

It takes her a moment or two to get used to him. He makes her skin feel too small, constricting, and she's having trouble letting air into her lungs.

Laughing, her skin tingles under his exploring lips as they cruise below her breasts. He loves to _torture_ her.

He teases her, laughing when she groans. She should complain, _this is not fair_.

_Complain all you want_, he's out of breath.

* * *

**_Then there's the kind you want to grab and slam against the wall, fuck her until you can no longer breathe._**

* * *

He's in love with her thighs. There's just something about them that turns him on. He's helpless when she closes her long legs around him, he can't help but be amazed, letting his hands travel up their smooth surface, gripping the firm skin, wanting to _bruise_ her, _brand_ her, _claim_ her. 

He wants to drown himself in her skin, leave a part of himself inside her. And he does, pulling her as close as possible, trailing hands feather-soft over her skin, trailing rough thumbs on the outside of her thighs, over her back, dragging a greedy finger over a rock-hard nipple… smoothing his thirsty tongue over the velvet wetness of her center.

* * *

**_She's the kind that drives you crazy with lust; she clouds your judgment and leaves you blind,_**

* * *

She's in love with his back; she could spend hours lying there, watching the play of sinewy muscles relax and strain under his skin. She dies a little when his lips whisper against her ear, curling her toes._Burning_, her stomach liquefies. _Spread your legs_, he commands. 

And she does, she always does.

* * *

**_because there's nothing you can see, only feel as she locks up around you and tortures you until you beg._**

* * *

They crumble surrounded in ashes; he can feel her quivering muscles sending jolts of lightning through his nerve ends. 

And then there's only silence. Her breath evens out; perhaps she's afraid, or perhaps she's too tired. _Too far away_, he decides as he pulls her close, burying his nose in her hair, trailing his tongue up her neck.

* * *

**_There's an exception to every rule,_**

* * *

It's been five years since he spilled his coffee on her. 

Suddenly, the thought of spilling coffee over her now rounded belly holds an immense sense of freedom for him. Though, somehow he doesn't think she would appreciate it all that much. He opts instead to kiss the side of her stomach, smiling at the retaliating kick.

* * *

_**because every now** **and then, there comes that kind of woman…**_

* * *

Her screams reverberate throughout the entire room, her hand squeezing his so tight he fears she might break a finger or two. He feels a sort of pride when she curses like a deranged sailor, relishes the looks of stupor the nurses exchange between them. 

_I hate you!_, she screams as he kisses her forehead.

* * *

**_she's light and shadow, lust and love…_**

**_And what if she can't cook?_**

* * *

He cradles his infant son in his arms, and he can't decide if he should first comfort his crying wife or his wailing son.

* * *

**_Neither can you._**

* * *

_He looks just like you_, she whispers. 

He smiles, but decides not to say a word. He actually looks like her—a lot like her.

* * *

**_And maybe she's not perfect,_**

* * *

She sneezes loudly, as if caught off-guard and smiles in apology. He laughs. The baby cries.

* * *

**_but she's perfect for you._**

* * *

**The End**


End file.
